My Detox Distilled


Life radicalized,

into roots.


But fear loomed like

a stitched whale song.


Laying in the fetal position

wrapped in the arms of solitude,

worse than trapped, no bird songs—


under the cover of a static quilt,

with imprisoned hushed mind voices

beneath and their spun spiraling eyes,


whispers that cycle like lightning

along the trails, bolting down

around Remorse Passage, surging across Regret Line,

plowing straight into Resentment Way,


silent electronic surges boom,

amplified by the hollowed inner walls.


A steel wheelbarrow dumps pile after

pile of hot steamy hopelessness

into the echoing abyss, packing it tight

like a trunk, until it overflows.


Then light cuts down the stock,

and carries the whole heap—

back to the radical,

a mere pretext

without context


in extremes.


Wayward Abolition


Dark spread across the land

in strange westward blows,

from the mouth of a Titan.


Black blanketed the forest,

the gray squirrels hid in trees,

the rabbits to their burrows.


An egg was left by a mother

in the middle of the forest’s

floor. Silent guilt oozed from

the egg toward its neglector,

suffocating her to death.


Night set in for the long hall,

weighing down the trees,

and the bushes longed to see

the sun dancing around the earth

with free food like Jesus.


The once pleased owl

grew tired of the perpetual

blackness, became depressed

as he stared out at the sky,

missing the absence of difference.

And the moon no longer shone,

it slinked back into the abyss.

The owl stopped hooting

and started to lose its feathers.


by S. Babin

S. Babin holds a BA in English Literature from the Ohio State University, and a JD from the University of Pennsylvania Law School. He lives with his family, and works in Columbus, Ohio. His work will be forthcoming in The Wayfarer; Spark: A Creative Anthology; Bop Dead City; Cactus Heart; Star 82 Review; and many more.

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